What Providence Brought Together
by KaizokuShojo
Summary: Herein lie the tales of the early days of the friendship of Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John H. Watson. Set before SIGN begins. Updated as ideas strike me.
1. 221B

_**What Providence Brought Together**_

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**KS: ****Halloa. Welcome to **_**What Providence Brought Together**_**, a fanfiction about the beginnings of the famous and wonderful friendship of Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John H. Watson. I think, truly, it can be said that they were brought together by Providence, so I think my choice for a title is quite worthy. I was inspired to write this when I read KCS's fic **_**No Dogs Allowed. **_**Now, let's see if my poor writings are worthy of such a story idea as this. **

_**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any of the affiliated characters or ideas. Their creator is the remarkable Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**_

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Mr. Sherlock Holmes and I had arranged to meet at 221B Baker Street the next day at noon, and he proved to be punctual to our appointment.

We entered and were greeted by the landlady, who seemed very glad at the prospect of tenants. There were two bedrooms and a large, airy sitting-room, both of which were comfortably furnished and quite to my liking. I saw that my prospective flatmate seemed pleased by them as well, for his piercing grey eyes darted about as he walked purposefully about them, throwing glances at seemingly every little thing.

He did not say very much until the landlady had finished showing us about, and then he put forward some very interesting questions, quite similar to the ones he had asked me the day before.

"You do not have any objection to people coming in and out at various hours?" he asked.

"No," the landlady replied, a little surprised, "as long as they're not out to cause a row."

Mr. Holmes thought about that for a moment.

"Well, that's all right." said he. "You do tolerate smoking, of course?"

"Of course."

"And I am a bit of a chemist…you have no objections to my having experiments in the house?"

"…As long as they stay in the sitting-room or your room, Mr. Holmes, and they're safely kept, then I see no problem in it." She replied, again sounding hesitant.

I myself wasn't surprised by the last fact, since I had seen the day before his discovery of a new test for blood. I was interested to see what other sort of chemical researches he indulged in, and to what purpose he did so.

"Do you like music?" he asked. It struck me that he asked a similar question the day before to me, about violins.

"…O-of course, Mr. Holmes. I would like to think I do, sir."

"That is well," Sherlock Holmes said, turning to me. "Well, Doctor, have you any questions or objections?"

"I do keep a bull-pup," said I to the landlady, "Do you have any objections to that?"

"No, Doctor, I rather like animals, as long as they're well-behaved." She replied, seemingly relieved at my more simple question.

I turned to my new acquaintance.

"I think that is all I have to ask." I said.

Sherlock Holmes smiled. "Well, I think that we've settled the matter. You will go halves with me then, Doctor?"

"I believe these rooms will suit me admirably." I replied.

"I'm inclined to agree." he said, shaking my hand and turning to the landlady once more. "Well, Mrs. Hudson, I think that you have some new tenants."

And thus our engagement of the rooms at 221B was settled.

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**KS: Well, there's chapter one! This story might not update extremely quickly, for I am trying to both do another (more suspenseful) story and focus a bit on art, and I'm a little busy with schooling and family affairs. But, since this story shouldn't have any cliff-hangers, I don't see why you'd be too eager for more too soon. (But, since it's interesting, there should be enough updates. xD )**

**Please, don't forget to review! Tell me how you think I'm doing!**


	2. Moving In

_**What Providence Brought Together**_

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_**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any of the affiliated characters or ideas. Their creator is the remarkable Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**_

**KS: ****Welcome to chapter two of **_**What Providence Brought Together**_**. I'm not exactly sure how long this is going to run, but I definitely know where it's going to stop. xD**

**I find it exceedingly fascinating how, at the beginning of the stories, Watson is quite friendless and unable to venture out, among other things, but toward the end he has just as much energy it seems as Holmes. I think—and I know everyone agrees—that their relationship was quite beneficial to both of them. I really think it will be fun to explore the earliest days, before Watson knew a thing about Holmes. So, here goes chapter two!**

**I have asked permission from KCS to borrow an idea or two from fics, as some of her explanations are quite cute and good. So, you might recognise a thing or two**** throughout these stories. XD **

**Enjoy! **

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At this time I was staying at a private hotel in the Strand, spending my pension money far more freely than I ought, so that evening I moved my things from the hotel to the apartments at 221B Baker Street.

I was a bit tired, and so did not begin to unpack my things that night. I was very happy about the arrangements. The rooms were so desirable in every way, and the terms so reasonable when divided between myself and my new acquaintance, that I could ask for no better. I looked forward to a life of rest after the action I had witnessed in Afghanistan and illness in India.

The next morning Sherlock Holmes arrived, bringing with him several boxes and portmanteaux.

"So, Doctor," he said, "If I may ask, which room were you thinking about claiming as your own?"

I had slept the night before in the lower room, the one that was adjoined to the sitting-room.

"Well," said I, "I think the lower room would be the best for me. I would only have to climb one flight of stairs to get to my room."

I saw Holmes's face fall slightly.

"Oh," he muttered. "Well, I thought you would take the upper room, since it's so much more peaceful. I do have people here occasionally, and since you said that your nerves are a little shaken—"

"Well, since you put it that way, I suppose I _could_ take the upper room…"

"Excellent. I shall help you take your things up, if you wish."

I declined, saying that if I needed help I could always ask. Sherlock Holmes seemed pleased enough with this, and he took a few of his boxes into his new room to stow his things away. I proceeded to take my own things, one box at a time, up to my room to do the same.

I had relatively few things, having just recently left the army, and it did not take me long to put away my clothes and a few other necessities, and then I descended to the sitting-room to arrange the things I had left down there.

Holmes had already finished putting the things away in his room, or, at least, had put the boxes in there, and was occupied in the same fashion as I was about to be. Currently, he was arranging a complex-looking set of instruments on an already chemical-stained deal table. He was quite absorbed in his work, and did not seem to notice me as I entered, so I went over to the boxes I had left behind and began to open them.

I had a few books, some of a medical nature, some scholarly, and a few just for leisure reading. There were a few bookshelves and desks which I could use, I thought. There should even be more than adequate room for the few journals I had written during my army days. Then, a thought struck me. I would have to share storage space with my flatmate.

"Holmes," I said, turning to him.

He was busy connecting a tube to a retort, and started at the sound of my voice.

"Oh, Doctor," he said. "What is it?"

"Which of these shelves do you want to use for your things…?" I asked, gesturing to the various places about the room.

Holmes stood, first looking around the room, then at my few boxes.

"You have a few things too, then?" he said. "I shall take that filing cabinet over there, next to the sideboard, and that bookcase…and that one. If I need more, I will furnish them." He placed his finger on his chin thoughtfully as he looked about. "I suppose I shall have to arrange my things separately…" he said, speaking this last part seemingly to himself.

I stacked and placed my books and papers on the desk near the window. I wouldn't go through them entirely to-day. I would finish settling myself in over the next several days. I had no need to hurry.

It seemed like my flatmate felt the same way, for his belongings were rather strewn rather than placed on the pieces of furniture he had claimed use of. He had a great many books: large scrap books, indexes, encyclopaedias, and things of that nature.

By the time we were vaguely settled in, the landlady brought up our lunch. I was quite grateful, for I hadn't eaten very much that morning for breakfast, and by now I was famished. I took a seat at the table, with my back to the window, and began to eat.

A minute had passed before Holmes decided to join me, and when he did he seemed to pause and stare at me.

"Why are you sitting there?" he asked. I was puzzled at the question, but he had asked it so innocently that I couldn't help but reply in the same fashion.

"I'm…eating, Holmes."

He seemed quite annoyed with my response, and his thin lips pressed firmly into a line before he spoke again.

"Never mind." He said, going over to the other side of the table and seating himself.

The fare was a simple enough lunch, but was quite good, and soon we were both finished eating. Holmes pulled out an old, oily black clay pipe and proceeded to fill it. The idea of a quick pipe after lunch was pleasant, so I too began to prepare my pipe.

I wondered what sort of tobacco that Sherlock Holmes smoked. He seemed to be the type to have one of those fine tobaccos, the kind that would offer a good but light smoke. But, then, he _had_ said the other day that he smoked strong tobacco.

I hadn't any idea how strong until he lit his pipe. It quickly smoked up, as if it was rather dry, and I quickly caught scent of the strong, acrid fumes. Since I had been smoking Ship's for a while now, it was not more than I could bear, but it certainly was not the type I would expect a normal man to smoke.

Holmes was perusing the newspaper, and when I coughed he looked up and caught my eye glancing him over. He smiled very slightly and looked at his pipe.

"I did say it was rather strong."

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After lunch we returned to our tasks of getting settled in, and we took few breaks until supper. When the landlady brought up our meals, I noticed that Holmes quickly rushed to the table and took the seat with his back to the window. I then recalled the incident earlier at lunch, when he asked me why I was sitting there. It must have been because _he_ wanted to sit there. I was somewhat indignant about this at first, but then I thought there was no harm in it, and if he _really _wanted to sit there so badly, there was no reason why I shouldn't let him. I did become curious about why he wanted to sit there, though.

"Is there any reason you want to sit in that particular place?" I asked.

"Well, It's just a habit. I always try to sit with my back to the window." he replied. "I find it useful."

I wondered why he found it useful, and was about to ask, but it seemed that he was quite uninterested in conversation at this moment.

Holmes, I observed, was a very silent fellow so far. He had hardly spoken to me all day as he bustled about. Which, it was just as well. I didn't need too lively a companion, for my nerves were not up to it. He was also rather singular…though I couldn't quite put my finger upon what it was about him. I knew he apparently had some way of finding things out, though I hadn't observed much of it yet, and apparently no one knew why he did the researches he did. Most singular.

I would have plenty of time to study him, I thought. It would give me something to do.

Stamford had said that he would learn a lot more about me than I about him... I decided I would try to prove Stamford wrong. I always loved a good mystery.

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**KS: You know…Watson probably got the upper room initially because his wound was a **_**shoulder**_** wound…which turned to a leg wound…which then seemed to turn to both……..XD**

**I'm sorry for the scatteredness of this chapter...I'll try to do better in the future. I've just been a bit scattered as I wrote it. xD**

**Please, review:D**


	3. Pups and Slippers

_**What Providence Brought Together**_

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_**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any of the affiliated characters or ideas. Their creator is the remarkable Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**_

**KS: ****Welcome to chapter three of **_**What Providence Brought Together**_**. I am having a lot of fun doing this, really. xD**

**As I basically said the last chapter, it's wonderful to see how different and unadjusted Holmes and Watson were to begin with, and it's fun to try and think of how they first reacted when they found things out about one another.**

**Enjoy! **

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I had asked Stamford to keep my bull-pup until I was settled in, since I had no one else to ask. Now that it had been a few days, Sherlock Holmes and I had most of our things unpacked and put away, and I asked if Stamford would bring the pup around.

The little dog was obviously happy to see me, and licked at my face as I carefully knelt down to greet him. I thanked Stamford, and when he left I wondered what I would do with my little pup. I could not possibly leave him in the sitting-room—not with Holmes's chemicals lying about in there. And my room wasn't much safer for the little creature. So, I arranged a place for him on the ground floor in the same place that the landlady's own little old terrier was being kept.

I left him there, and ascended to the sitting-room. I planned on spending the day going through my old journals from the war, and perhaps rearranging a few things. I was in the process of doing this when I heard a great commotion from down below.

"Down! Down, boy! Dow--_DOWN_, I say!!"

It was the commanding, strident voice of my new companion, and intermingled with it were the fierce yaps of my little bull-pup. After this I heard a great crash, another shout of annoyance, and loud, quick steps as I assumed Sherlock Holmes was quickly ascending the stair.

I was correct, and a moment later the man himself burst into the sitting-room, shutting the door hard behind him. A flushed face and lips pressed hard into a firm line spoke of his state of agitation.

"Your dog, I think?" he said, his tone calm but slightly uneven.

"Yes," I replied. "Stamford brought him over to-day."

"Well," Holmes said, running a thin hand over his slightly ruffled hair to smooth it, "He is loose."

"Why was he barking at you like that?" I asked out of curiosity.

Holmes paused for a moment, his normally pale face still a little red.

"I have found that some dogs do not like me. Most do, but some absolutely despise me. Your little pup has just been trying to nip at my heels."

"I'm sorry," I said. "I'll go and make sure he doesn't get loose again."

Holmes went over to the pipe-rack for his pipe, and I descended once more to re-secure the dog. The little pup was sitting calmly at the bottom of the stair, his tongue lolling happily out of his mouth as he panted, seeming to smile at me. I smiled a little at the sight, also a little at the emotion it had drawn from my austere flatmate.

I saw that the coat-rack had been knocked over—obviously the source of the loud crash, and I righted it before putting the dog away.

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Once my little pup was once again safely away, busy worrying our landlady's own old dog, I went back up the stairs to our sitting-room. All the climbing I had done to-day was greatly stressing my leg, and I looked forward to relaxing a while.

When I entered the room, I saw Sherlock Holmes sitting his chair, filling what looked like a Persian slipper with something.

"What is that?" I asked.

Holmes looked up at me.

"It is a Persian slipper." he replied.

"No, what is it that you're filling it with…?"

"Oh. Tobacco." He replied casually, continuing his task.

"…Tobacco? In your slipper? Whatever for?"

"…This is where I keep most of my tobacco." He replied. "Don't worry, I never have worn it."

I was absolutely speechless for a moment.

"But, a _slipper_…"

I stared at the singular man a moment longer. He said nothing as he stood and placed the slipper on the mantelpiece.

This man was _quite_ the mystery, indeed!**

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**KS: Dry, dry tobacco! Holmes was definitely singular…and liked his nicotine. XD**

**Dear Holmes is not used to small-talk yet...and friend Watson is not used to such strange ways...xD**

**Please, don't forget to review! **


	4. Mr Lestrade

_**What Providence Brought Together**_

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_**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any of the affiliated characters or ideas. Their creator is the remarkable Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**_

**KS: ****Welcome to chapter four of **_**What Providence Brought Together**_**. I am very glad so many of you are enjoying this so far. I might have already finished this chapter by now, but storms swept (and are still coming) through, so I had to turn the computer off. xD**

**This story is very fun to write, but also rather difficult. It's not so hard to see Holmes and Watson's relationship pre-STUD, for the beginning of STUD covers that fairly well. But, the hard part is deciding WHAT to cover and WHEN. xD I don't want to use my material too quickly, or place it illogically****. But, I'm sure I'll get it. **

**Enjoy! **

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I was rudely awakened by a violent pealing of the bell. I sat up with a start, and searched wildly on my bedside table for my watch. It was twenty minutes past five o'clock. I groaned as I rolled over, the infernal ringing of the bell sounding again. Mrs. Hudson, our landlady, would not be awake yet—no decent person should be.

I climbed out of bed, bleary-eyed and groggy, and trudged as quickly as I could toward the door, grabbing my dressing-gown along the way. I stepped out and started down the stairs, and I saw Sherlock Holmes—much more awake and alert than I was—likewise exiting his room clad in his dressing-gown.

He observed me before he went to get the door.

"Oh, Doctor, did the bell wake you?" he asked quickly.

"Yes, it did." I replied with rather more impatience than I am prone to have when wide-awake. "What is it at this hour…?"

"Don't worry about it, Doctor, and go back to bed. It is just one of my visitors."

I stared at him as he rushed down the stairs to the hall door, and heard the voice of another man as someone greeted him. I decided whatever it was, it was none of my business. So I followed his advice and went back into my room, climbed into my still warm bed, and fell asleep.

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I arose the next day at eight, and I found that Sherlock Holmes had already gone out. It seemed, by the untasted dishes on the table, that he hadn't eaten his breakfast, and I wondered where he could have gone so early without refreshment—and why he had done so.

I went on about my day, spending it as I could in going through my old journals and reading the morning papers. When Holmes hadn't returned by noon, I began to wonder where he could be. When the landlady brought my lunch, she said that she hadn't seen him to-day.

It wasn't until three o'clock that afternoon that I saw my flatmate again. He came with a quick and determined step into the sitting-room, a deeply meditative look on his face as he walked wordlessly past me to the pipe-rack. He filled it with the tobacco from his Persian slipper and lit it, his dark brows drawing together broodingly as he smoked.

I did not venture to speak to him—I was not certain about this abstracted, intense air, and I dared not break into whatever his thoughts were. About ten minutes later, there was a ring at the door and our landlady brought up a man's visitor's card.

Holmes took it up, quickly glancing at it.

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson, show him right up please." he said.

She left and a moment later a small, ferret-faced, alert man came into our sitting-room.

"Good day, Mr. Holmes," the man said, his face a bit less friendly than his tone suggested.

"Ah, Lestrade." Holmes said. "Lestrade, this is Dr. Watson, with whom I share my new flat. Dr. Watson, this is Mr. Lestrade."

The small man took my hand in a firm grip, and we exchanged pleasantries.

"Doctor, if you would be so kind, I really must beg that you let me have the use of the sitting-room for an hour or so." Holmes said.

"Of course," said I. "I will go to my room. Good day, Mr. Lestrade."

I left Holmes and his small friend and departed for my room, wondering what I would do for the next hour.

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A while later, I heard the hall door close, and I left my room and looked downstairs. Holmes was handing off a telegraph form to the landlady, and I ventured down. Holmes looked at me, stepping aside so I could re-enter the sitting-room.

"I'm sorry to have made you leave," he said, walking toward his table, "but Lestrade and I had a few matters to talk over."

"It's perfectly all right," I said, sitting down in my chair. It was not my place to stand between a man and his friends or business, whichever this Lestrade was.

Holmes was examining a small piece of paper, and with a sigh he tossed it down onto his desk. He took his Persian slipper and his black clay pipe and sat down heavily in his chair.

Just then, there was a quick, light clatter of little nails on wood as my bull-pup dashed up the stairs and darted into our sitting-room. I saw Holmes's sharp grey eyes grow wide as the pup nearly rolled to a stop on our carpet and turn its direction toward him.

Holmes quickly drew his full long self up into the chair, standing upon the seat. The little dog barked furiously at him, and my flatmate's movement in the chair caused his Persian slipper to drop to the floor. The pup, distracted by this new item, immediately rushed for it.

"No!" Holmes cried, snatching up the shoe and grabbing the pup by the scruff of its neck cautiously--but, apparently, not cautiously enough. The little fighter spun around as best as it could and nipped Holmes on the wrist.

Holmes gave a cry of pain, but did not drop the dog. Instead, he quickly shoved it into my arms. "Take it!" he cried, drawing back his shirt sleeve and looking at the small marks.

I took the dog down back to its room--Mrs. Hudson had not been careful enough when letting her own dog out, and thus mine escaped--and hurried back up to the sitting-room.

"I'm sorry about the dog. Are you hurt?" I asked.

"No," Holmes replied, rubbing the bite with a damp cloth. "I'm fine."

"Here, let me have a look at it."

Holmes hesitated.

"I am a doctor, after all." I said.

"No, all it needs is a little disinfectant." Holmes said, going off to his room. "I will be fine."

I wondered, as the door shut behind him, how I could keep the dog when it hated my new companion so. I would have to figure something out.

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**KS: Aha, is anyone good enough to know why Holmes didn't want to let Watson treat him? xD**

**Anyway, please, review!**


	5. Violin

_**What Providence Brought Together**_

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_**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any of the affiliated characters or ideas. Their creator is the remarkable Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**_

**KS: ****Halloa, and welcome to chapter five! Dear Holmes and Watson are still not sure what to think of each other.**

**In the last chapter Holmes, of course, didn't want Watson to see the needle marks on his arms. Why? After all, cocaine was technically legal. Holmes probably had probably anticipated that Watson would not receive it ****well and he knew definitely that a medical man would not fail to notice such things as the small needle pricks. Holmes was quite unsure how to act and react in close personal situations, and so probably wanted to avoid them—he didn't want to have the conversation he knew might come when Watson found out. But, of course, he eventually got used to Watson and Watson to him, and he stopped trying to hide it.**

**Also, I said that Lestrade called…and Watson said in STUD that they had no callers for the first week. Ignore the idea that the Lestrade part happened in the first few days. It's been a week or so now. XD**

**Anyway, e****njoy! **

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For the majority of the next day, Holmes was absent again. He returned at about six o'clock, looking quite tired. He devoured his supper with a ravenous hunger—which was, by his own admission, the result of going nearly two days without food—and afterward withdrew into his room, re-emerging a moment later with a violin case.

"A violin?" I asked. "So you play?"

Holmes came and sat down in his chair, removing the instrument from its case.

"Yes," he replied, tenderly holding the violin and placing it under his chin. "I'm quite fond of violins."

At this he sat the bow on the strings and began to play.

I had not heard such wonderful music in a long time. I had not expected such a quiet, introverted, austere a man as Sherlock Holmes to be able to produce such melodies.

He seemed so completely immersed in the music that I could not help but be drawn in myself. I was startled out of my reverie when he finished and spoke.

"Would you like me to play something for you?" he asked.

"...Can you play Mendelssohn's Lieder?" I asked tentatively.

He smiled a very slight, tight smile once again as he began to play marvellously.

"That's wonderful, Holmes." I said in admiration.

The corners of Holmes's mouth drew up farther, and I saw a tinge of colour come to his sallow cheeks as he drew the bow across the strings.

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I had went to bed after nine, and slept soundly for an hour or two. But, as my sleep lightened, something I heard drew me from my sleep.

…What was that noise?

It was rather irritating. I got out of bed, again feeling too tired to do so, and grabbed my dressing-gown. Glancing at my clock, I saw that it was thirty-six minutes past eleven. I trudged down the steps to the sitting-room, for that's where the sounds were emanating from, and cracked open the door.

Sherlock Holmes was reclining in his chair, his long legs stretched far out in front of him, and his violin was no longer under his chin, but was in his lap. His head was back, eyes were closed, and he was…not really playing it, but rather scraping at it. The tones were even and steady, but were in no way organised. The mood was evident in them, drifting deeply about in a thoughtful manner.

It was a rather strange sight.

As singular as it was, it was nowhere as pleasant to listen to as his earlier airs. I wondered to what purpose he was doing it, but I didn't want to disturb him--even if I did wish for him to quit so I could sleep more easily. I made my way back up to my room, and tried to get some sleep.

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**KS: I love, love, love the fact that Holmes loves to be flattered. And he loves violins. And has no problems with just messing around on it…the same basic thing as doodling. Holmes is just too perfect for words.**

Please, review!


	6. Visitors

_**What Providence Brought Together**_

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_**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any of the affiliated characters or ideas. Their creator is the remarkable Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**_

**KS: ****Halloa, and welcome to chapter six! In this chapter, yes, I am going to be using some direct phrasing from STUD. I'll try to redo it as much as I can, of course, but it will undoubtedly be familiar to you. I find that it's good to have stories that quote/use imagery/etc. from the canon, even if it's reworded slightly. It reinforces the feel of the story and the message.**

**Also...I'll try to get a chapter of _On the Streets of Paris_ up to-night, also, if the snowstorm the weathermen are calling for doesn't take out the power...XD**

**E****njoy! **

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I realised more and more every day just what a singular man Sherlock Holmes truly was. I had very little to do in those days, and with the inability to venture out very often and no friends to call upon me, I took my occupation in studying him.

He was not difficult to live with, by any means. He was quiet in his ways, and lived very much to himself, keeping fairly regular habits. He seemed to keep a cool façade over any emotions that he might have, and I noticed that the only way to read his features was to watch his grey eyes closely, and even then they were difficult to read, for often his eye-lids were drooped heavily over them in thought or languor.

His violin-playing remained very much the same: he would play very well many recognisable songs, but often, when left to his own devices, he would just sit around as I've described, scraping at it. Clearly the 'songs', if you could indeed call them that, were a reflection of his thoughts, but I wasn't sure if the playing was a result of these thoughts or if it aided them. I might have remonstrated with him, as it was rather trying to the nerves, but he would usually end his tiring solos by playing a series of my own favourites.

During the first week or so of our acquaintance we had no callers, and I had begun to think that my new companion was as alone and friendless in this great city as I. But soon I found this was not so. After we had settled in and had lived in our rooms for a while, many people began to call, and these were from all classes of society.

Mr. Lestrade--whose visit I described earlier, taking place about a week and two days after our move in--was the first of these, and he often came three or four times in a single week, but more were soon to follow.

One morning during breakfast, the bell rung, and in a few moments a card was brought up to Holmes, who looked it over.

"Show her up, Mrs. Hudson," he said.

Mrs. Hudson descended and returned with a lovely little creature, a young woman, fashionably dressed. I was extremely surprised. I had not known Holmes to be anything of the romantic sort.

Holmes stood, ushering the lady into a chair with a very genteel and soothing air.

"I am sorry, Watson." he said, turning quickly to me. "I must use the sitting-room again."

"Of course, Holmes." said I, retiring to my bed-room. I did not want to interfere with his visit from the young lady.

A little over a half hour later she left, and I descended carefully down.

Holmes was smoking his pipe as he sat in his chair, looking thoughtful. As reserved as I was about inquiring into other people's business, I could not help but ask.

"Who was she?" I inquired.

Holmes looked up at me, his eyes a bit vacant in thought before he finally came out of his reverie with a start. He opened his mouth to speak but stopped, his gaze hardening on me.

"She is not a romantic interest I assure you, Watson." He replied defensively. "She only wished for a little help."

He said nothing else of it, and I didn't ask. For the next few hours I spent my time reading, trying to catch up on the books that I missed while away at war.

At a quarter past noon an old, seedy-looking man appeared quite unceremoniously in the door of our sitting-room, glancing excitedly from one of us to the other.

"Which of you gentleman is Sherlock Holmes?" he asked, a slight foreign accent to his thick voice.

Holmes half raised his hand, and then turned to me.

"I am very sorry, Watson, but I must ask if I may—"

"—Use the sitting-room again. Yes, of course."

Once again I started out for my room, my leg starting to ache from all the stair-climbing. As I exited the room I saw a slip-shod elderly woman ascending the first set of stairs, and as she saw me she paused, flushed slightly, and gave a quick muttering of "pardon me" as she slipped by me into the room.

Things were certainly getting lively around here.

That was all of the callers for that day, but gentlemen, railway porters, and other such singular visitors would come at completely varying times, and each time, just as the first, Sherlock Holmes would ask for the use of the sitting-room.

"I'm sorry, Watson," he said apologetically after one of these visits. "I have to use this room as a place of business, and these people are my clients."

So he _did_ work! I had been wondering about it often for the past several days. My own meagre income was from my military pension, but Holmes seemed to do very little all day, indeed, except for those occasions in which he would go out on walks that seemed to take him into every sort of corner of London.

He wrote often, so I wondered if he was an author, which would be quite interesting indeed, for I rather enjoyed writing, and thought of myself as having at least a little talent in that field.

But, I did not ask. It was not my business to pry into other people's affairs. I would find out eventually. And besides, it was interesting to try to figure it out on my own--I did, indeed have little enough else to do.

It was obvious from his numerous chemical researches that he was interested in the sciences, and it was easy to tell that he, as Stamford had said, had a passion for definite and exact knowledge. I noted that his books varied so greatly that there was no way he could possibly be reading up on one subject alone. In the talks that we had, I had noticed that he had an ample and minute, though very eccentric, knowledge of things, being able to talk very well with a masterful, lecturing air on a subject if he so desired. I decided that I must know his occupation if I were to know more about the man.

"Holmes," I asked one day over breakfast as he perused the newspapers—he always read several different ones. "Are you studying medicine?"

Holmes looked up as he munched his toast.

"No, I'm not quite cut out to be a doctor, unlike yourself." He replied.

That was how he spoke to me—simple, concise answers, and no continuance unless he started the conversation himself, which was rare. I decided to let the conversation drift into other areas, for I felt like talking.

"I see there has been another murder in the West End." I said, pointing with my spoon to the headline on the front page of the Times which lay next to him.

"The wife did it." He said shortly, not looking up from the agony columns he was now examining.

"Pardon?"

"The wife did it." He repeated.

"But Holmes," I said, "The police are saying his brother is the culprit. The evidence—"

"The police are wrong. Just wait a few days, and you shall see."

A couple of days later I came down to breakfast, and when I opened the door Sherlock Holmes was seated at the breakfast table. When he heard me enter he stood quickly and handed me the paper.

"What is this?" I asked.

"Read the second headline." he said, seating himself again.

" 'Tuesday West End Murder Solved…Wife arrested and found…_guilty' _!! Holmes, this is exactly what you said the other morning…!!"

"Of course." He said, picking his paper back up again.

"But, how did you know…?"

"I had a feeling it was she." He replied, a slight gleam in his eyes, and he returned to his coffee.

That marked the end of that conversation. I didn't think I would ever break through the mystery that was Sherlock Holmes.

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**KS: I don't like this chapter. Sure, it's cute, but it's not done well. And there's not much I can do about it... Anyways, I'll do better in the next one. Review, please!**


	7. Hiccups

_**What Providence Brought Together**_

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_**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any of the affiliated characters or ideas. Their creator is the remarkable Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**_

**KS: ****Halloa, and welcome to chapter seven! �I must say quickly that this site is being intolerably mean to myself and a few others...our little horizontal line story divider things have dissapeared from many of our past stories, and are not always working when we try to post new ones. �Also, the strange site bug is putting words together randomly...which is extremely annoying. �So it's not my fault if something is confusing because it jumps subjects quickly or two unrelated words are crammed together...XD� And now random boxes are appearing in my story as I edit it...D8**

**Anyways, enjoy! **

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Sherlock Holmes and I were just finishing our lunch one day when suddenly Holmes jumped slightly, making a strange noise as he did.

"Are you all right, Holmes?" I asked.

Holmes opened his mouth to reply, but before he could he hiccoughed loudly.

"Ah," I said. "You should try to drink some water."

Holmes nodded vigorously, pouring himself a tumbler full of water and gulping it down quickly. He nearly choked as a hiccough escaped just as he was finishing.

"Blasted hic—hic—hiccoughs!" Holmes gasped, taking the napkin from his lap and throwing it angrily onto the table.

"Try drinking again." I suggested.

Holmes glared at me briefly, but poured more water into the glass. He drank all of this without incident, and waited. Nothing.

"Watson, I think they're go—hic!"

Holmes's face fell.

"Bloody—hic!"

I suppressed laughter, knowing I had no right to make fun of my new companion's plight. I must not have done a very good job of hiding my amusement, for Holmes glared daggers at me.

"It is not very funny Wat—hic!"

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Holmes was absolutely fuming when, after two hours, his hiccoughing had not ceased. He was determined, however, not to let them interrupt his day. He had a few chemical researches that, according to him, were very vital and must be performed.

I watched from the settee, peering over my book as he set up his delicate instruments and poured various chemicals from phials and bottles into others. So far, he was doing an admirable job of suppressing his hiccoughs. But I had an ill feeling as to how it would end.

I watched as he set a beaker onto his Bunsen burner, filling it with a clear liquid and turning up the blue flame slightly. He lowered his eyes closer to the experiment in concentration, taking a small amount of blue liquid from a bottle with a glass pipette and dropping it slowly into the heating liquid. The liquid turned from blue to a bluish-purple, and Holmes seemed satisfied with this. He hiccoughed slightly as he set aside the pipette and blue liquid, his face showing irritation at this. He then lifted a phial of another clear liquid from its position on a rack, pulled the top from it, and drew close to the experiment once more to be sure he poured just the right amount. He started to gently tip the glass phial over, watching very carefully…

And just then, he hiccoughed violently.

His hand jerked up, spilling the liquid from the phial into not only into the beaker but onto the table and his hands as well. Holmes jumped up, uttering a curse angrily. This motion knocked over the burner, also, and Holmes sprang to catch it—which he managed to do, but was slightly burnt in the process. He cursed again.

He quickly snatched a towel from the back of a chair and wiped vigourously at his hands, snarling in anger and pain, hiccoughing all the while.

"Are you all right, Holmes?" I gasped, getting up.

"That was _acid_, Watson. No, I'm not at the pin—hic—pinnacle of wellness at this moment." He replied sharply.

He rushed off into his room to wash his hands quickly.

"Holmes—"

"Not now, Watson! I must get this -hic- off immediately!" he called back.

"No, Holmes!" I gasped, coughing.

The experiment which he had spilt on the table was now smoking profusely, and I could smell as the table was being burnt by the acid and intensity of the reaction.

Holmes put his head out the door, and I saw his grey eyes widen at the sight.

He cursed yet again and hiccoughed, rushing to the table. 

I don't believe I had yet heard him use words like that. 

He immediately began cleaning up the mess, doing fairly well despite the excited nature of the situation and his anger. The table was no better for it, that was for certain. It had a large, puddle-shaped acid stain on it. I saw as he worked that Holmes's hands were slightly discoloured and raw, also.

"Holmes, perhaps you should let me take a look at those hands." said I.

Holmes tossed a towel angrily into a basin, now finished cleaning, and looked at me.

"No need…I shall be fine. It isn't the first -hic- time I've been burnt with acid."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes…quite sure." He hiccoughed again, finishing with a great sigh. He took a cigarette from his case and lit it, drawing on it nervously.

"I am going -hic- out," he said finally. "I can't just s—hic—stay here. I've work to do."

He took up his coat, hat, gloves and stick, and I felt truly sorry for the man. He trudged toward the door and opened it, and I heard him give a small shout.

I turned to see him quickly try to shut the door as my bull-pup ran in excitedly. The pup looked around the room and was about to run to me, but as soon as it saw Holmes it growled and made for his ankles.

"Watson!" Holmes cried, jumping up onto one of the chairs at the dining-table.

The pup jumped, trying its best to nip at Holmes's feet. I could not entirely tell if it was trying to be playful or was truly unhappy with Holmes's presence. Holmes tried to make a few grabs at it, but failed, and I came over quickly and scooped the little dog up in my arms.

"I'm sorry, Holmes, really!" I apologised, grabbing the dog by its scruff and trying to keep it from wriggling about in my arms.

Holmes stepped down from the chair, his pale face slightly flushed in embarrassment. He paused.

"Watson…"

"Yes?"

"I believe the hiccoughs are gone now."

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**KS: �This was inspired by both a personal bout with the hiccups and the brilliant minds at my forum for this story...xD �Go check it out! �The next chapter will be slightly related to this one. **

**Thank you for reading, and don't forget to review!**


	8. Friend

_**What Providence Brought Together**_

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_**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any of the affiliated characters or ideas. Their creator is the remarkable Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**_

**KS: ****Halloa, and welcome to chapter eight! I haven't much to say, so...just enjoy!**

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"MR. HOLMES! WHAT ON EARTH…!!"

I sank a little further into my seat, hiding behind the newspaper as my flatmate tried to explain the holes the spilt acid had made in the carpet and the foul odour that now permeated the flat. My little bull-pup was once again downstairs, put away with Mrs. Hudson's own ancient terrier, and safely away from Holmes.

"I said that I shall pay to have it repaired, Mrs. Hudson," my flatmate said, trying to soothe the incensed woman.

"Mrs. Hudson," I interrupted as I lowered my paper, trying to be helpful, "It really was not his fault. It was an accident, and he cleaned it up as quickly and as well as he could."

"Ha! He cleaned it up, did he? Then why are there holes in my floor?"

"They are only in your carpet, Mrs. Hudson," Holmes remarked.

Our landlady shot him a sharp glare, reminding Holmes that it was never wise to contradict an angered woman.

"Holmes had spilt acid on his hands too. If he had tried to save your carpet, he would have lost his hands." I explained.

Mrs. Hudson paused, looking with a sideways glance at Holmes's hands, which he unobtrusively slid into his trouser pockets—to avoid being fussed over, no doubt. I could tell by her face, though, that she had gotten a good enough look at them. 

"I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes. It was an accident, after all. Do you need anything, sir?" she said, concern now in her voice.

"No," Holmes replied with a soft sigh, glad that he was not being yelled at any longer. "I am just going out."

He grabbed up his hat and gloves again, seeming to me to open the door of our sitting-room more cautiously…probably watching out for my pup. He looked back at us and with a nod he departed.

I stood, sat my paper down, and moved to prepare to leave as well.

"What, you're going out as well, Doctor?" the landlady asked.

"Yes, I think I will take my little pup out for a walk."

"As you wish, Doctor." 

She descended the stairs, and I soon followed. I opened the door to the little room where the two dogs were kept, and my little pup bounded toward me happily. I let him lick at my face, and I slipped the lash around his neck. 

We stepped out into the sunny afternoon, a lovely breeze making the walk especially amiable. The two of us ambled along, I grateful for the moderate exercise, and the pup happily sniffing at all the strange scents. We made our way to Stamford's.

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—_Three Days Later_—

I was just sitting down to breakfast one morning when Sherlock Holmes entered the sitting-room, fully dressed and a little flushed in the face. I could tell he had already been out. He came over and sat in his seat at the table unceremoniously and poured himself a cup of coffee. After he took a few long sips, he spoke.

"I am glad to see your dog is under control now, Watson." he said.

"What do you mean?"

"I have been in and out a dozen times over the past two days, and he has not once burst from his room to nip at my heels, nor has he yapped at me from his confinement."

"That's because he's not here anymore," I said.

Holmes's eyes froze upon me from over his coffee cup, and his dark brows drew together. 

"Not here? Where is he, then?" he asked, lowering his cup.

I placed a sausage onto my plate from the tray.

"I gave him to Stamford. The fellow had been looking for a good dog, and he seemed to like him when he was taking care of him when we first moved in." I replied.

"But…what made you give him away?"

"Because, Holmes, he was continually either barking furiously at you or biting you. I daresay he even despised your shadow."

Holmes sat his coffee cup down in its tray, studying it intently. I furrowed my brow when I saw his curious expression. When he lifted his eyes to look at me and saw that I was looking at him, he lifted his cup back up to his lips and took another drink.

"You gave him away because of me?" he asked from behind his cup.

"Yes," I replied, giving him a small smile. "I couldn't have him biting your ankles off." 

He sat his cup back down.

"You didn't have to do that, you know."

"It was for the best," I said, curious about his reaction to such a small matter. "You are in and out so often, and have so many visitors. Besides, I'm in no health to be constantly chasing a puppy."

"Well, he did have his uses…The little blighter did rid me of my hiccoughs the other day."

"That he did, indeed." I laughed.

Holmes stood and sauntered thoughtfully over to his pipe rack, taking up his old, oily black clay pipe. He filled it from the slipper and lit it, looking back at me through the hazy smoke.

"You act almost as if you miss the thing." I remarked.

"No, no no." Holmes said quickly. "Hardly that. But…You really gave it away because of me?"

"You don't have to feel bad about it. I don't miss him that badly. I haven't had him that long, anyway."

"No one's ever done anything like that for me before." Holmes said a little more quietly, sitting down in his chair as he smoked.

It seemed only half addressed to me, and I ceased buttering my toast to look at him.

"Whatever do you mean?"

He looked over at me studiously. 

"No one has ever made such a…thoughtful gesture before." he replied, his face as impassive as ever but his eyes filled with some strange emotion.

Almost as if he was…trying to understand.

"_Why_?" he asked finally.

"Why? Holmes, you're my friend."

I saw his grey eyes widen a little at that, and he quickly turned his head to face forward. His long, thin fingers gripped nervously at the stem of his pipe as he smoked even more heavily, taking quick draughts.

"Besides," I started after a few moments of the most uncomfortable silence, "I think Mrs. Hudson's old terrier was getting quite tired of my pup's abounding energy."

Holmes turned his head back toward me slightly, smiling a little.

"Indeed." he said with a soft chuckle.

I laughed a few times myself, giving Holmes one more look before turning back upon my breakfast. What a singular fellow he was! Had he really never had anyone do anything for him? Could any man truly be such an island? 

Perhaps one day...I would see more behind that cold facade.

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**KS: If you're not too dense, I'm sure you can tell this chapter was somewhat based off of KCS's fic, "No Dogs Allowed." And I DID get permission to do so—a good while back. XD**

**Please, review! **


	9. Papers

_**What Providence Brought Together**_

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_**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any of the affiliated characters or ideas. Their creator is the remarkable Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**_

**KS: ****Halloa, and welcome to chapter nine! I'm sorry it took so long to update, but I wanted to focus on **_**On the Streets of Paris**_** until I got it finished. **

**I'm not so sure about this chapter, but some people I asked (thank you, KCS and bcbdrums) said it was all right, so here it is.**** It's not _hardly_ as good as the past chapters, but it should still be somewhat interesting. ...I hope.**

**Anyway, enjoy! **

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It was one o'clock one day when I returned to Baker-Street from running some small errands, and when I entered my new lodgings I noted once again the absence of my little bull-pup. But, I felt no regret at having given him to Stamford. He was a good lad, and deserved a good dog, and he would undoubtedly be able to take care of him far better than a war-injured soldier such as myself would be able to.

Besides, I could not possibly have kept him with the little pup's animosity towards my new fellow-lodger.

I went up the steps to the sitting-room, quite ready to rest my tired leg. Upon entering I was aware of Sherlock Holmes's presence by the smell of a recently smoked pipe that filled the room, and as I walked in farther I saw him lying on the sofa. He was quite motionless, and his usually keen grey eyes were dulled and stared vacantly at the ceiling. My medical instincts were aroused instantly.

"Holmes…?"

No answer, no movement.

"Holmes!" I called again, moving closer.

His eyes moved slowly and settled upon me at last.

"Oh, Watson," said he. "You're back earlier than I expected."

"Is there something wrong, Holmes…?" I asked, concerned.

"No, nothing's wrong," he replied. His grey eyes searched me over, his brow furrowing lightly. "I'm just a little…down. I'll be right soon enough, don't worry about me."

I watched him for a minute, my eyes narrowing slightly as I scrutinised his pale countenance. I had seen such lack-lustre expressions before, but where? It reminded me of... No. That couldn't possibly be it. Sherlock Holmes was not the sort of man to take a drug for recreation—the temperance and cleanliness of his whole life forbade such a notion! I quickly brushed it from my mind.

I made my way farther into the sitting room, towards my desk, but when I went to set the books I had just purchased upon it I realised that it was already rather covered with several small bundles of papers. I looked over at Holmes questioningly.

"Are these yours?" I asked.

Holmes looked at me again with dreamy, languid eyes, craning his neck to see what I was referring to.

"Oh, yes. Most of them are, at least."

"But why are they on my desk?"

"Because there is no more room on my desk, I'm afraid."

I looked, and surely enough what he said was true. His desk had already accumulated many more papers: some were loose and some bundled with red tape, and a few were even pinned together with his letter-opener.

"Where are they all coming from…?" I asked.

Holmes stretched out slightly, putting one arm behind his head, and seemed to think for a moment.

"I find that occasionally I acquire some notes and documents from my business, and I am ashamed to say that I am just a bit too lazy to put them away properly. Those you have in your hand need to be sent to Mr. Lestrade to-day, actually…"

I glanced only slightly at the papers, not wanting to intrude, and looked about the room for a more suitable place to put them.

"Have you no where else that you can keep them?" I inquired.

Holmes looked around, searching likewise for another location for his papers.

"I suppose you may just put them onto that book on my desk. I shall have to take them later… If my untidiness bothers you, Doctor, I shall endeavour to put away my documents."

"No, I suppose it's all right," said I, setting the papers aside in the directed area. "I've seen worse, believe me," I added with a smile.

Holmes returned my smile with one of his own.

"Excellent," he said.

Just then, there was a knock on our sitting-room door.

"Enter," said Holmes.

The door opened to admit Mr. Lestrade, who nodded in greeting as he saw me, and turned to my new friend.

"The new lodgings are certainly an improvement on Montague Street, Mr. Holmes," said he, shutting the door behind him. "Your landlady just offered cake with my tea."

Holmes smiled; I noted that he looked much more lucid than he had several minutes before.

"Ah, Mr. Lestrade. You've saved me a trip," said he. "Dr. Watson has some papers for you."

I handed the red-tape-bound papers that Holmes had talked about just moments before to the sallow-faced man, who muttered his thanks.

"Doctor—" Holmes began, but I interrupted with a smile.

"I know, Holmes. I shall be in my room," I said, and I went upstairs.

Though he was strange and highly irregular, I was quickly growing used to my singular friend. With his masterful nature, intelligence, and constant air of mystery, how could I not allow him a little peculiarity every now and then?

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**KS: Don't forget to review! Please, make suggestions for this chapter, it needs them very, very badly...XDD**


	10. First injury

_**What Providence Brought Together**_

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_**DISCLAIMER: Sherlock Holmes and the entire genre/etc. connected to him do not belong to me. Their creator is the remarkable Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**_

**KS: Welcome to chapter ten! I hope you're enjoying this fic so far. I'd like to thank bcbdrums for coming up with the idea that I should incorperate PGF's "First injury challenge" into this. It's not the longest chapter, but...well...that's all right. x3**

**As always, it's a look into Holmes and Watson's developing friendship pre-STUD.**

**Enjoy!**

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After Mr. Lestrade had left I descended to our sitting-room to find Sherlock Holmes busy searching through his many papers. So immersed was he that he did not even seem to notice my return, and I went over to my chair to continue a book I had begun reading the night before.

I could not concentrate on the novel for very long, however, as my new companion's fervent searching captured my attention. I had witnessed the ritual several times before: he would pore over his great books and collections of papers, being careful with each one, and even occasionally dissapeared into his room to search. I had no idea what these papers and books contained, so I had no clue as to what he was looking for, but I knew it must pertain to his 'business' that he would occasionally refer to.

After a few minutes of observing his intense search my eyes returned to the pages of my book, and as I went back to reading I heard a hiss of pain from Holmes. I looked up just in time to see a file drop to the sitting-room floor and my new friend clutch his finger. He muttered something quietly before grabbing a napkin from the dining-table.

"What's wrong, Holmes?" I asked, setting aside my book.

Holmes looked at me for the first time since I had entered the room, as if surprised to see me.

"Oh, Watson," he said. "I've just given myself a paper-cut, that's all." He turned his back to me and began to deal with the injury.

I stood to my feet and went to his side.

"Here, let me take a look at it--" I said as I reached for his hand, and to my surprise he drew it away from me promptly.

"It is but a scratch, you needn't concern yourself with it."

"Never the less, I would still like to take a look at it."

I gave him a concerned yet firm look, the same sort that I had given many stubborn patients before. Holmes returned my look with a rather firm expression of his own, but finally after a moment he sighed, removed the napkin from his finger, and held his hand out to me.

I turned his long, thin, acid-stained hand over in mine and examined his cut forefinger, and I felt my brow furrow lightly.

"It's a rather deep cut," I remarked. "You should let me clean it for you, or it may get infected." I released his hand. "Let me get my bag."

I walked past him and to my room without giving him time to protest and came back as quickly as possible. I found him trying to search through his papers one-handed, obviously not wanting to risk opening the wound again and getting blood on them. I sat my bag upon the table and drew from it a roll of bandages and the disinfectant.

"All right, Holmes," said I. "Let me see your hand."

Holmes tugged his sleeve down slightly and gave me his hand again. I poured a little of the disinfectant over a piece of cotton and thoroughly rubbed his finger with it. He hissed very slightly through his teeth at the sting, but other than that made no comment as I continued, wrapping his finger with a thin bandage.

"It should be perfectly fine now," I said.

Holmes flexed his wrapt finger once before lowering it to his side.

"You didn't really have to do that, you know," he said, taking up another file.

"Yes, I know, but it's better that I did."

"Well, thank you, Doctor," he said abruptly, and with that he continued with his search.

I returned the roll of bandages and the bottle of disinfectant to their place in my bag and shut it. I decided I would leave it in the sitting-room for now and take it up later, since I had no desire to climb the stairs again. I went back to my chair and sat, and I quietly resumed my observations of Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

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**KS: Thanks for reading! Please, don't forget to review!**


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